


patagonia

by antineutrinos



Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Bar Owner Chris Trott, Bounty Hunters, First Meetings, Flirting, Gen, M/M, Platonic Relationships, did i already tag space?, jaysus i hate myself lol, space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 22:57:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15873411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antineutrinos/pseuds/antineutrinos
Summary: Ross sniffs. "You're unbelievable."Trott snorts, indignant. "At least I'm not the one who was running away from a goddamn parking officer! Do you want that drink or not?""Yeah, I want that drink." Ross crosses his arms, leaning against the bar. "You didn't have to flirt with him, that's all."Trott pours the alcohol aggressively. "Listen, I did you a favor. I didn't have to hide you in my bar. So what if I flirt with the guy that's after you? You're not in much of a position to complain, Hornby. Why is it such a big deal, anyway? It's only a parking ticket."Ross looks sheepish. "He... well, it's my third parking offence this month, and if I get caught again then they take my ship off me.""Your ship? Ross, your ship is a piece of junk. Who cares if it gets taken off you?"If Ross' eyes could shoot laser beams, Trott would be a melted pile of limbs on the floor. "It's my ship. I can't let her be taken by some low-life parking officer." They fall into silence. Ross claps Trott on the shoulder, their version of an apology. "You really need to get some strippers in here, friend. I know you're going for the whole dive-cesspool look, but some strippers would really brighten the place up."





	patagonia

**Author's Note:**

> Okey dokey folks. I came up with a sci-fi au in my head and this is a product of that. Tell me what you think, I am eager for your thoughts and opinions. 
> 
> As usual, this is your daily reminder that I love thatannoyingbella with my whole heart, forever and always.

As bars go, Piledriver took ‘sleazy’ and redefined the word. 

A fine layer of dust covers everything, hanging in the air and giving the place its signature musty scent. It’s dark, with all the blinds closed and the lighting minimal. Two patrons nurse drinks, sitting as far away from each other as possible. One hasn’t moved his head off the counter in a while. There’s the slight possibility he’s dead, but you get that a lot in Piledriver. People come and go, people come in and people don’t come out. The public drinking away their sorrows happens to be a great business. 

The door flies open. Light starts to fill the place, and the bartender is disgusted. All this dust— all this ambiance!— suddenly gone. It took _years_ to build up this sleaze. Not to mention their reputation! 

The patron, the one who isn’t assumed dead, raises his head at the sudden influx of light from the outside. He squints his eyes, and lowers his head once more. His suspicions have been confirmed. The door has indeed been opened. 

And the culprit stands in the door. Guilty. Caught red-handed. Silhouetted against the raging sunshine outside. 

Barely a second passes before the perpetrator of this foul door-opening is rushing into the bar, eyes wide and crazed. He slams his hands down on the bar countertop. He’s out of breath, panting hard. All the displaced air swirls around him, and he unsettles the dust. It flies up, swirling along with the rest of the air, like some strange air-dust tornado. 

The culprit gulps, trying to catch his breath, before he starts speaking. “Trott, you have to help me, please—” 

The bartender, who stands across from the terrible door-opener, doesn’t bar an eyelid. He had been wiping a dirty glass with an even dirtier rag, and he keeps wiping that glass like nothing happened. The man opens his mouth to plead again, when Trott speaks. 

“Ross, shut the goddamn door. You know we have rules in this place. You can’t just _open_ the door and leave it open. Goddamn maniac.” He shakes his head sadly. “You’re going to disturb all my customers.” 

Ross looks around him, at the wealth of customers around him. He turns back to Trott and rolls his eyes, as if to say, “what customers?” It gets a smile out of Trott. Either way, Ross goes back and shuts the door, the noise filling the otherwise silent bar. Then he’s back, hands on the bar, eyes pleading with Trott as hard as they possibly could. 

“Seriously, Trott, I’m in big trouble. I really need your help. They’ll get me if—” 

Trott slams the glass he’d been cleaning down on the counter with a bang. The glass is, of course, filthy. “Ross. I told you to calm down, didn’t I? You been back on the stardust? You know that stuff’s bad for you. When’s the last time you landed, anyway? You look worse than aubrac shit.” 

Stardust. It’ll take you to hell and back before it takes your life, too. It’s common, and its sparkle is more alluring than any kind of drink and any kind of woman. Trott only teases about it. If Ross is actually on it, then, well. That’s a different problem altogether. 

Ross does look like shit, though. Unshaven, disheveled. There _is_ a crazed look to his eye. Not to mention he smells bad, too. Underneath it all, Ross is still a handsome bastard. Not even Trott could take that away from him. 

Ross just closes his eyes for a split second and takes a deep breath. Then he’s back, eyes all big and his face all sad. “Trott, I swear to god— I need to hide, I promise I’ll answer all your questions afterwards. As long as you hide me and I don’t go to prison for the rest of my life!” 

Trott throws his hands up in the air. “Alright, jesus. Come back here. Don’t rattle the back cabinet, that son of a bitch is going to break any day now. Oh, and mind radrats, their bites don’t heal well, if you live through it.” 

There’s another rush of displaced air as Ross vaults over the counter. Trott shakes his head. Such a drama queen. Of course, he jumps. He couldn’t just _walk around_ like a normal person. 

Just in time though, because the door bangs open again. Trott can’t help but let out an exasperated gasp. The door open? Twice in one day? Is this a dream? Or a nightmare, more like. The _effort_ it took to get this particular perfume around the place— wasted. 

The second culprit is different. Big build, almost blocks the whole door. Trott grabs the shotgun he keeps underneath the counter. He grips it tightly. Such a shame that lazguns aren’t permitted on Earth. They’d make much quicker work of this guy than some old Earth gun. 

The person— presumably Ross’ persuer— steps in. Even in the darkness of the bar, even silhouetted in the door, Trott can make out the blue and gold outfit. He smiles, then, letting go of the shotgun. He won’t be needing that, if it’s a government official that’s after walking into Trott’s bar. 

The said government official, who is almost too big for his uniform and has an unkempt beard and even more unkempt mop of hair, glances around the bar before he lands on Trott. Trott just cocks his head and starts pouring a drink. 

“Eh, did you see some fella come in here? Big guy, yea-high, dark hair?” The government scoundrel says. The lazgun on his hip jostles as he moves. It stands out, reflecting the low light. Then again, the badge of honour on the scoundrel's breast sure does stand out, too. 

Trott smiles, slowly. “No,” he shrugs, “Why?” He tries to keep his eyes off Ross, who is cowering on the floor behind the counter. 

The government man _almost_ smiles. “Parked his ship in a no-park zone, in front of a government vehicle. Then he crashed into it. Ran away when I tried to apprehend him. He had a Hummingbird III. Real bad condition. You know it?” 

Trott shakes his head. 

The man shrugs. “Thanks anyway.” 

Trott can barely tear his eyes away. He pushes the glass, full of liquor, towards the door. “Here,” he calls, “You want a drink? I have bum-pincher juice. Real good, too.” 

The government scoundrel, who’d turned away and was halfway out the door, turns back. He looks at the drink, at Trott. Suddenly he’s smiling, stepping forward, downing the drink in one swallow. He smacks his lips, grinning like a Cheshire, throwing the glass down on the counter. 

“I shouldn’t drink this early.” He says, but he’s cocked an eyebrow and got one hand on the bartop, leaning forward. 

Trott just starts wiping down another glass. “Maybe you’ll just have to come back later,” he replies, voice slick as oil and full of implications. He meets the scoundrel’s eye. 

The government man winks, then turns to leave. He raises his hand in a half wave, half salute. 

“Hope you catch him,” Trott murmurs, “We sure hate wrongdoers in these parts.” 

He hears a chuckle, and then the door is shut. Finally, Piledriver’s has been restored to its former dank glory. Thank the lord. Ross stands up, brushing the dirt of his already-dirty trousers, a wonderful mix of disgust and awe on his face. Trott smiles at him, smug as a Callisto stripper with money tucked in her underwear.


End file.
